


Touch of reality

by all_4_feels



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Come as Lube, Comrade Tarakanov Ships Valoris, Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Gentle Sex, Getting Together, Grinding, Implied Future Character Death, Insomnia, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Old Men In Love, Oral Sex, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spit As Lube, Touch-Starved, Valery Legasov Has Low Self-Esteem, Valoris, Virgin Valery Legasov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_4_feels/pseuds/all_4_feels
Summary: Often, at night, when Valery lies awake in his hotel room bed, he thinks about Boris.
Relationships: Valery Legasov & Boris Shcherbina, Valery Legasov/Boris Shcherbina
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	1. Fantasy

Often, at night, when Valery lies awake in his hard hotel room bed, too filled with jittery anxiousness to fall asleep, but too tired to do anything else, he stares up into the dark ceiling, and thinks about Boris. More specifically, he thinks about Boris' hands; his touch. It's not every night he lies awake (often barely hitting the bed before sinking into deep, albeit fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep), nor does he find his thoughts wandering to the _Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers_ every time he does (there are more important matters to keep him awake at night, after all - more sinister thoughts), but it's frequently enough that he knows that it would get him in trouble, should anyone somehow (miraculously) get a wind of it.

He thinks a lot about the times when Boris has touched him, about how gently the man guided him back into his seat after he lost his balance in that helicopter (in spite of the bureaucrat's visible chagrin at being challenged in front of his subordinates), even going so far as to asking him if he was hurt as he rubbed at his bumped leg, and every other time that has followed since then, every shoulder grab, every pat on the back, every unsuspecting brush of the man's arm against his own, totally unaware of the way it sets his nerve endings on fire. Every point of contact between them, no matter how fleeting or nonchalant, haunting him, taunting him, making him overthink every single word, every single gesture like some lovesick, pining schoolboy.

And then he thinks about the times when he _wishes_ that Boris had touched him. In their trailer, in their hotel rooms, in the back seat of Boris' Seagull, in that ludicrous hallway in Kremlin, in the conference room in front of the central committee, in front of Gorbachev, in front of Charkov and _all_ _of the fucking KGB_ (!)... in front of their followers on their occasional nocturnal walks together... or right now, as his hand slips down from where it's been resting on the mound of his stomach, and pushes past the waistband of his briefs as though of its own accord, wrapping his small, delicate scientist's fingers around his aching need. He thinks of what Boris' fingers would feel like in their stead, the rough, wide heat of his palm engulfing his weeping flesh, pulling him off with gentle, torturously slow strokes.

Sometimes, his little fantasy doesn't end there, though. In fact, when he's feeling particularly daring, he thinks about what Boris' fingers would feel like if they moved lower, cradling his sack and brushing over his perineum, before coming down to circle around his hole. He thinks of what the blunt tips of those meaty, calloused appendages would feel like if they pushed into him, breaching his entrance and rubbing along his walls, stretching him, preparing him for something much, much larger still. And then he thinks about what those big, strong hands would feel like pressing him down, the tall, heavy bulk of his frame pinning him into the mattress, his deep, gravelly voice commanding him to stay still, to stay _quiet_. It never takes long for him after that, his teeth nearly busting through his lower lip in his effort to not utter the man's name for their listeners to hear, as he covers his belly with rope after rope of thick, hot semen.

It's humiliating, really, for a man of his age and intellectual standing to push his hand into his own pajamas and bring himself off to the guilty thought of another (a _man_ , at that) with such speed and frequency, as though he's nothing more than a single-minded, hormone-driven teenager... but he does it with the firm belief that such outrageous flights of fancy will only ever occur within the safe confines of his own mind. Just like they have always done.

And then, one day, Boris goes and does the unthinkable. The man hugs him (no, scratch that, _holds_ him) and it's at that exact moment that he knows, he just _knows_ that he will never be able to settle for anything less than reality.


	2. Sample

It happens on one of their better days (he dare not say good days, for their lives have been blatantly robbed of those), so few and far between. Boris has managed to get him (them) an authentic, honest-to-God _lunar rover_ , and for once he can't stop his positive surprise from showing on his face as he watches the rover move effortlessly on the screen, clearing the graphite and other debris from Katya's surface. And Boris, of course, so oblivious to some things, but for some unfathomable reason so bloody observant in when it comes to _him_ , notices. "Valery, what's that? A smile?" As soon as the words leave the man's mouth, those electric blue, suddenly all-seeing eyes finding his own, his slightly quirked lips force themselves into a full-blown, toothy grin, and before he even realizes, the man has reached out, clasping him by his cheeks. For a single heartbeat he panics, fearing that his reaction to the touch, his true feelings, are plainly legible on his features, but it's already too late, and all he can do is to let go, to surrender to the wide, involuntary smile that has taken over his muscles, and allow himself to be shaken before being pulled into the other man's body, into their first-ever embrace that sets his blood aflame.

After they have finally pulled apart (Boris' arm, curiously enough, settling around his shoulders instead of letting go of him entirely), he knows with painful clarity that he won't be able to live without Boris' touch again. Which is kind of ironic, as he is well aware of the fact that his life won't extend that much further regardless. But the sadness of dying (if not voluntarily, then at least knowingly) by radiation is only outweighed by the absolute _tragedy_ of not knowing the warmth of the body of Boris Yevdokimovich, the roughness of his palms and the caress of his breath, and as a tireless pursuer of knowledge, a man of science, the notion of dying ignorant, of failing to acquire data in spite of burning with the need, the blatant necessity to know, is unacceptable. No... No. He will not die a stranger to the touch of Boris Shcherbina. He will soak up any and every bit of contact that he can possibly get, like he soaks up the radiation.

It's providential, really, that right after he has seen the usually stoic statesman as joyful and relaxed as he has personally ever seen him, and had another sample of the tenderness of the man's affection, he gets to witness the fierce violence of the man's rage only a couple of days later. The West German police robot, Joker, regrettably turns out to live up to its name (a very brief life as it may be), and though his expectations regarding finding a gadget that could take Masha's level of radiation had not been very high at all to begin with (almost nonexistent, if he's being honest, and he almost always is), he cannot help but feel the gravity of this setback. With the kind of work they're doing here, every piece of good news means everything, and the change of tone from tentative optimism to bitter despair is so sudden that it almost gives him whiplash. For one fleeting moment, he had dared to hope, and his hopes had been let down.

Not one for emotional outbursts, he can't help but stand obediently outside as Boris unleashes all of their combined disappointment and frustration over the phone (and _on_ the phone, by the sounds of it), the trailer nearly rocking from the force of it. He's not sure as to exactly _who_ the man is talking to (yelling at), but then again, he does not suppose that it really matters. At this very moment, he has no doubts as to whether even the General Secretary himself would get the same verbal hiding. For his own part, all he can do is smoke in chain and pace around the yard, while General Tarakanov waits still with his arms crossed, merely paying concerned glances between himself and the trembling trailer. He admires the man's resolve. When the door finally flies open and Boris steps down from the trailer, dragging the absolutely obliterated husk of the phone with him, a shiver runs down his spine at the sight. When the man tells that the state refuses to officially acknowledge the extent of the disaster, and that the Germans had been given the propaganda number of radiation, hence the robot's failure, his frankly mild surprise and vague disbelief are quickly drowned out again by the awe of the other's imposing form.

Boris' fury is like the ocean, spilling over the edges within one minute, and then completely calm again within the next. He envies the man's ability to reign in his anger and act in a controlled manner, despite the storm undoubtedly still raging inside him. As he watches the man then tell one of his subordinates with remarkable clemency that they are in need of a new phone, he thinks of what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such restraint. Of what it would be like to be made love to with those terrific hands that are capable of such violence, and yet such gentleness at the same time. Soon it's the only thought filling his head, and when he finally watches the man climb back into the trailer with those broad shoulders hunched, the defeated arc of them belying the power and determination that still reside beneath them, he is left to stare at the open door. It's not until he catches Tarakanov giving him a funny look that he realizes that he's meant to follow.


	3. Ache

It takes a long time for him to find Boris that night, and when he finally does, it's in the back office of their hotel's kitchen, nursing a barely touched bottle of vodka; one of their go-tos whenever they want to talk without the fear of being listened in. It's a lucky chance that he finds him there, as they alternate between the places almost every time. "I'm sorry," the man tells him mournfully almost as soon as he steps into the dark room, hesitating at the door before taking a seat in the kitchen manager's chair, instead of his usual one on the other side of the cluttered desk that is currently occupied by Boris. It's a curious setup, and he would almost comment upon it, if he wasn't so concerned about his friend.

"It's not your fault," he is quick to reassure the other, accepting the bottle that is offered to him across the table, but not taking a sip yet, for now content to observe the gloomy profile of his friend. Boris meets his gaze, and for a moment appears at a loss for words, but eventually shakes his head. "But it _is_ ," the man wails, and his heart clenches at the way he buries his head in his enormous hands. "I can't believe that I actually used to _believe_ in this system! The same system that now spits me in the face," the man then laughs, ugly and humorless. '... Well...,' he shrugs after a beat and drops his gaze, finally taking a small swig of the liquor, the sharp sting of it burning on its way down his throat. He's not sure exactly when they ditched the glasses altogether and started simply sharing the bottle. He would've thought that such vulgar behaviour would be beneath the high-ranking statesman, but he likes it. It feels more... intimate, somehow.

A long, loaded silence falls between them, until he speaks up again, gradually gathering his thoughts. "I have... done... things, that I regret as well," he starts slowly, thinking with resentment back on his days at Kurchatov as the Communist Party's secretary. Oh, what a foolish little man he had been. Foolish, and naive. "But it does not do to dwell on the past," he continues resolutely after a beat, swallowing down his regrets before they have a chance to choke him. "What matters is that we are here now, and we are trying." He takes a minute to swallow again, sucking in a tentative breath. It appears that there is something left caught in his throat, after all. "We are trying, despite all of their lies, all of their deception and efforts to the contrary, to make it better. We have to believe that it counts for at least something." He doesn't know if Boris believes him (hell, he doesn't even know if he believes it himself), but at least the man doesn't say anything to contradict him, simply stares at him with those wide, impossibly pale eyes of his, as though what he has just said is something particularly clever, before reaching out to ask for the bottle again.

Another, slightly less charged silence ensues, Boris sipping slowly some more vodka and staring at the blinded window in front of him, while his own eyes are busy following the movements of the man's throat as it bobs rhythmically around the liquid. So hypnotized he is by the sight, that he almost misses it when the other man speaks again. "... I-I'm sorry, _what_ ," he blurts out, startled. Pushing his large glasses hastily up on the bridge of his nose, he sits up straight in the chair. Boris turns to look at him then, and for a fleeting moment he thinks that the man is angry with him, until his ambiguous expression melts into something unbelievably soft and wistful. "I wanted to see you smile again, Valera," the man murmurs quietly, so quietly that he can't almost hear it, those warm, hazy blue hues crinkling around the edges. He would say that the man looks drunk, but he knows that he hasn't really had all that much yet. "I wanted to be the one to put a smile on your face."

'... W-what...?' He swears that he feels his pulse pick up at the words, a bright flush spreading onto his cheeks as his eyes widen of their own volition. For a moment, time itself seems to freeze as he holds his breath, the two of them simply staring at each other in the dim green light of the exit sign. Boris gives him a small, short smile and hums, as though amused, before his face falls again, expression turning sorrowful. "... But I failed you," the man exhales at last and slumps back in the chair, hooded eyes dropping to the floor. "I wanted to provide for you. Anything... anything that you wanted, I wanted to give to you. I know that I can't spare your life, I know that I can't give you more years... and believe me, if I could, I would take a hundred times the radiation if it only meant that it would save you... but everything, everything else."

Boris looks back up to him then, and startlingly the man's pale crystal eyes are rimmed with unshed tears. It's only then that he notices the wetness covering his own cheeks. He has no idea where all of this is coming from, but he feels his heart constrict underneath the weight of the other's words, speechless before the vast emotion behind them. "... B-Borya...," he manages to whisper at last, slowly rising from his seat with trembling limbs, and Boris looks so much like one of those miserable old mutts that they have seen on the streets that he can't take it. He can't let the man think that he has let him down, it is simply not acceptable! He steps away from the chair, and before he even realizes, his shaky feet have carried him around the desk, stopping a mere meter away from the other man. Boris peers at him inquisitively, and for a moment he hesitates.

"You haven't failed me. This... this is just one setback, and we've had so many of those already. And just like every time, we will figure something out. Together." Boris looks at him, then, _really looks_ at him, putting down the bottle from his hand, and it gives him courage, courage to continue saying these things, because they're true. "Gosh, Boris, you have given so much! Machines, materials... men... Everything that I've asked for, everything that I've needed, you have delivered." The words are flying out of his mouth without filter, and he feels his cheeks burn at the meaning behind them, but he can't bring himself to stop. He has to tell him, he has to let him know how much he has done... how important he is.

Boris' expression has changed, misery having made way for something akin to solemn amusement. When he finally finishes his own tirade, the man slowly heaves his heavy form up from the chair, hand slipping off the table, leaving the bottle behind as he takes a towering step towards him. "... _Everything_ ," the man inquires quietly, a rueful smirk gracing his thin lips. "Really?" The man moves closer until they're standing face to face, close enough that he can feel the warm puff of his breath on his skin and smell the slight tint of alcohol in it. The man is so close that he can almost _taste him on his tongue_ , and it takes every last ounce of his willpower not to close the rest of the small distance. This whole situation is way too much like something out of one of his little fantasies, and he feels his body respond to it in a decidedly inappropriate way.

"Y-yes," he replies hoarsely and then swallows nervously, licking his lips and he is startled to notice when Boris' dilated pupils follow the movement. The man's features spread into a wolfish grin, white teeth gleaming in the darkness of the room, and suddenly he has stepped closer, impossibly closer, so close that he can almost feel... ('Good God... _Is that_...') "Because it seems to me... _Valera_... that there is still something that I have neglected," the man purrs teasingly, slowly, cautiously raising a hand to brush his rough knuckles against his puffy, damp cheek. The touch is gentle and feather light, barely even there, but it's enough to cause his eyelids to momentarily flutter shut and a shiver to run down his spine, his breath hitching in his throat. "Tell me that I'm wrong," the man rumbles softly, and when he finally looks up again, he meets the other's probing gaze with easy decisiveness. "... No."

The word is barely out of his mouth, before he finds his lips being captured in a wet, passionate kiss, a large, warm hand coming to grasp the back of his head in a possessive manner. He can't do but yelp in surprise as Boris' arm snakes around his waist, pulling him into the tall, strong wall of his bulging body and bending him nearly in half as his mouth is being devoured alive. His nerve endings are on fire, his lips tingling from the hard contact with the other man's, and with a small, helpless moan he opens his mouth, giving in to the onslaught of lust and pent-up desire, _so long_ held back. Boris is quick to slip his tongue past his lips, the slippery heat of it almost too much as it invades his mouth and his senses until there is nothing left but Boris' warmth, Boris' taste, Boris' touch, and soon he finds himself unable to do anything but to cling on to the smooth, silky front of the man's dress shirt for dear life.

When Boris finally breaks the kiss with an obscenely loud 'smack', the man's breaths are coming out in harsh gasps, and he finds that his own are, too. The sheer, naked hunger that he finds in the other's blackened, burning eyes is almost startling in its nature, the statesman's demeanor bordering on desperate, and he has never felt so coveted, so utterly possessed by another human being in his entire life. "My Valera... my sweet, sweet Valera... surely you must know how much I _ache_ for you," the man rasps at him with that low, positively sinful voice of his, and if he had thought that his heart couldn't possibly beat any faster, it now threatens to downright burst out of his chest.


	4. Hope

They barely make it out of the office, briefly debating on doing it right there on the kitchen manager's desk, before Boris finally asquiesces to listen to his voice of reason (not without a great many groans of complaint, though) and, after breaking away from yet another hungry kiss that leaves them both panting with desire, almost physically drags him out of the kitchen, through the deserted lobby and up the flights of stairs into one of the chance unoccupied, non-plugged rooms. The perks of going out with a seasoned Party official, he supposes, and almost lets out a very unmanly giggle at the thought (except that maybe he _does_ , because Boris then whips around to him and asks him with icy flames of lust burning in his eyes as to what the hell is so damn funny).

As soon as the door closes behind them, Boris pins him up against it, attacking his mouth once more like some hungry, ferocious beast (and maybe he is). It makes him feel like they are naught but a pair of two wretched, horny rascals, but in the most delightful sense, and again he can't stop a slightly unhinged smile from spreading onto his lips, despite them being nearly crushed against the other man's. "Valery, you're killing me," Boris groans at last, pulling away from him. "What the hell is it that is so goddamn funny?" If anything, the man's grumpy, utterly debauched expression causes his cheeks to pull even wider apart, revealing his gapped teeth as silent laughter bubbles up somewhere in the pit of his belly. "Just... _this_ ," he grins without any sort of control over the muscles on his face now whatsoever, gesturing uselessly at the space between them. For a moment Boris simply oggles at him, a confused look plastered onto his features, before finally understanding shines back at him in the form of tentative, answering mirth. It warms something deep within the confines of his chest, and suddenly his face falls as he is brought back to the reality of their situation.

"Boris... I-I had no idea...," he starts with a waver in his voice, tears prickling behind his lenses as he reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers, gentle and feather-like, against the smooth cheek of the man who still has his shoulders pushed up against the hard wooden door. The delicate, almost fragile joy on Boris' face is quickly replaced by incredulity. "You mean... you haven't seen the way I've been looking at you? The way I've been bending over backwards to get your attention?!" Eyes widening in shock and realization, he firmly shakes his head. With a frustrated groan, Boris lets go of him. "Gosh! No wonder Tarakanov told me to take it easy on you," the man mumbles to himself, running a shaky hand through his slicked-back silver hair. Meanwhile, he can't believe what he's hearing. Tarakanov _knows_?! About _them_... ?

His confusion must be clearly visible on his face, because suddenly Boris bursts out laughing. "Oh, Valera," the man exclaims good-naturedly, reaching up to cup his cheeks. "It's no matter, I like you like this!" The man then pulls him into one another affection-filled kiss, backing him up against the door again until his back hits the hard surface and his hands fly out to wrap themselves around the man's hulking torso, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of the man's rumbled dress shirt. Seemingly emboldened by this action, Boris breaks away from the kiss, instead proceeding to attack his jaw, ear and neck with hungry lips and teeth. Completely lost in the hot, wet sensations and still a little hazy as to what exactly is going on, he can't help but surrender to the pleasure as he's being devoured by this beastly man. He's trying his best to remain quiet, but can't stop the tiny whimpers and moans that roll off his tongue. He has never experienced something like this before, and his body is responding to the stimuli at a commendable rate.

"Valera, I have to have you. Please tell me that I can have you," Boris gasps in between sucking kisses and careful love bites, moving lower and lower until his lips and teeth come to graze the tender, flushed skin of his chest. He has no idea as to at what point the top few buttons of his shirt have come off. The realization sobers him up enough to speak up. "W-w-well, it-... _Ah_!... I-i-it depends," he stutters, a pitiful moan escaping him as Boris presses the hard curve of a hot, powerful thigh between his legs. His face burns to find himself completely erect against the insistent limb. "Depends on what," Boris suddenly growls, pulling away from him just enough to look him in the eye. His breath catches in his throat at the naked, insatiable lust burning in the man's darkened eyes, until a flicker of uncertainty passes over those handsome features and his heart sinks a little in sympathy. Surely the man doesn't think that he would say no _now_?

"O-o-on whether you intend to do it right here against this door, or move on to the bed. I'm not a young man anymore, Boris. Neither of us are," he breathes, tentatively reaching out and placing his hands onto Boris' ridiculously wide shoulders to steady himself, meeting the other's hungry gaze. For a moment Boris seems to contemplate the thought, before a predatory grin spreads onto the man's face. "Speak for yourself, Legasov. I could take you right here against this door," the man croons and leans in once more, rocking his hips up against his own in an almost animalistic manner, and he tries not to think about just how much that excites him. That particular little game, however, is hopelessly lost when he feels the hot, hard mass of the bulge in the man's trousers drag up against his own.

It is, perhaps, fortunate that Boris decides to take at least some modicum of pity on him, then, pulling away from him completely in favor of twirling around and striding over to the (delightfully convenient) queen-size bed, starting to shed his clothes one after the other with no question of hesitancy. Left to stand breathless and more than a little light-headed, he sags against the hard wood beneath him as his knees buckle, his mind not quite yet catching up with what has just happened (and what is evidently still happening, and what will happen yet). He has never been so head over heels with arousal in his entire life, never felt so sure about wanting to be conquered in every possible way, and yet he knows that if he still wants to put a stop to this, whatever this is, and all that it entails, this is his chance.

"Valery," Boris calls for him from by the bed, and his head snaps up, taking in the sight of the other who is now, remarkably, dressed down only to his white undershirt and briefs. Has he really been standing there for so long? Or... or is Boris really that eager to have him in a bed? He can't believe it... "Have you changed your mind," the man asks quietly, gently even, busy fingers pausing at the hem of the man's shirt just as they are about to lift it up. The man looks so tall and powerful even dressed in nothing but his underwear, still so handsome despite his age, or perhaps even because of it. "No-... N-n-no," he stammers as soon as he manages to tears his eyes off of the statesman's awe-inspiring form, instead meeting his striking, startlingly concern-filled regard. "I-it's just that... I-I have never...," he starts, thinking that surely he will die of sheer, unadulterated embarrassment any second now, when Boris interrupts him.

"Done it with a man," the statesman states, nodding in understanding and a small, bashful smile spreads onto his lips as he continues on with his undressing. "Me neither. You're an exception, Valera. My exception," the man says softly as he pulls the shirt over his head and folds it over the back of a chair, and Valery's heart crumbles a little at the absolute adoration with which the man looks at him, momentarily stunned. "N-no," he shakes his head all the same, his face really threatening to catch flames now. "I-I mean... with anyone."

A long, awkward silence ensues, before Boris finally speaks up.

"Y-you... you mean..."

"Yes."

"You've never..."

"No."

"... Not even-"

"No." He doesn't know what the man was going to say, but he can guess, and besides, the answer is still the same. Boris' face falls, then, his expression turning into something incredibly sad and regretful. In fact, the man looks a lot like when he told that they have five years tops to live, and it's starting to piss him off. Really, _really_ piss him off. He does not want any damn pity. "Oh for God's sake, Boris, don't look at me like that," he snaps, letting his shoulders drop in frustration as he takes a step away from the door. "It wasn't for the lack of-," _candidates_ , he would say, but trails off, feeling his cheeks heat up at all the embarrassing situations that flood back into his memory at that thought. "It... it just never came up. I've never felt the inclination to share something like that with anyone. At least... not enough to actually do something about it. Not until now."

He looks back up again, then, meeting the other's widened eyes. "I used to think that I would have time, and... well, after a time it just lost it's meaning," he explains, feeling a kind of melancholy creeping up on him. "Christ, I don't even really know why I'm doing this. All I know is that the time that I thought I had no longer exists, and... Gosh, Boris, the first time I met you, you were so stubborn, so bull-headed, so blind to the faults of this ridiculous system that doesn't give a damn about your life, and all I wanted to do was to rip that stupid pin right off your _stupid, gorgeous chest_... But... but Boris, you have proven me so wrong... You have been so kind, so caring, so willing to help in any way you can and I just _know_ that if I miss this chance... if I, if I let myself die without allowing myself to experience this, I will never be able to forgive myself." He watches with mild interest as the expression on Boris' face turns more and more confused. He is well aware of the fact that mere months ago the man would've reacted to his words with anger, and no doubt he would've found himself paying for his insolence, but now the statesman appears above all apprehensive. "... E-experience what," Boris asks after a beat, and the slight tremor in the man's voice doesn't go unnoticed for either of them. So this is what it feels like to be the more confident man in the room, he muses briefly as he sees uncertainty (and perhaps even a tiny hint of insecurity) steadily take over on the other man's features.

Never one for cruelty, though, and unwilling to play games with nor torment another human being, he approaches the other man, stopping only a meter away from the visibly distressed Party official. "This. You," speaks softly, meeting the other's tentative gaze with gentle assurity. " _Us_." Something flickers in Boris' eyes, then, and the statesman's expression melts into something incredibly soft and almost solemn. "... Oh, Valera," the man breathes after a moment, readily closing the rest of the space between them, both physically and metaphorically. "I-I'm sorry. If I had known, I wouldn't have been so rough with you." The man then reaches up to ever so carefully pull his glasses from his nose and place them onto a table behind them, before turning back to him to cup his cheek, the warmth of his wide, rough palm making his flushed skin feel even hotter. "I-I don't mind it," he stutters, ever so slightly leaning into the touch, still quite blown away by the simple reality of it. "Do you still want this," Boris leans in to whisper into his ear, and he finds that he most decidedly does. "Well then... Valera... allow me to assist you."

Boris undresses him with the same kind of methodical efficiency as he did himself, but with infinitely more gentle touches and almost reverent patience. For his own part, all he can do is just stand there uselessly and stare at the other's bare chest, his eyes fixed upon the man's hard brown nipples and the smattering of wiry gray hairs between them. He thinks that if he can just concentrate on how badly he wants to lean forward and rub his face against that _very fine chest_ , he won't be able to feel the shame and embarrassment that are sure to ensue at his own nakedness. When he is finally dressed down only to his briefs to match the other man's state of dress (or rather, _un_ dress), his clothes neatly folded onto another chair nearby and shoes perfectly lined up on the floor beneath them, Boris takes a step back to look at him. In turn, his own gaze drops automatically down to the space between their feet, wringing his hands nervously in front of him (to be completely honest, he thinks he's panicking a little). "Look at me," the man speaks up after a beat. He doesn't. His eyes stay firmly trained on the pattern on the ugly, "fashionable" carpeting.

" _Valery_." A warning. His heart is hammering in his chest.

"Valery Alekseyevich, you look at me right now!" His gaze snaps up immediately, and for a split second he gets to see the stern, unyielding expression on Deputy Chairman Shcherbina's face, before his features morph into a satisfied, friendly smile. "You were waiting for that, weren't you," the man asks with a noticeably softer voice, a knowing look in his eyes. "I've seen the way you look at me, Valera. The way you drool and trip over your own feet whenever I order my men around," the man chuckles, an amused little sound, and a spark of indignation lights itself inside of him at that. "I do not drool," he snarls petulantly, taking a step closer to the other man and, to his infinite embarrassment, _trips over his own feet_ , landing straight into Boris' awaiting arms. "But you do want to be ordered around, don't you," the man snorts as he catches him and then pushes him back up from the safety of his warm, wide chest, holding on to his arms to steady him and thankfully _not laughing_. Cheeks burning with ungovernable shame, he says nothing. The man then bends down to brush wet lips against the reddened, pulsing shell of his ear, blowing in a hot breath. "Get onto the bed," the man rasps with that cursed drawl of his that just drips off sin and sex, and he swears that his little plump body has never moved with such speed and agility in the entirety of its life.

Despite his ominous tone, and the formidable, almost predatory way in which he climbs onto the bed after him, covering his own petite form with his massive one and blocking the moonlight that filters softly through the closed curtains, as though casting a veil of shadow upon their forbidden acts, Boris treats him with utmost gentleness. The statesman showers his lips and skin with wet, feverish kisses, the weight of his considerable body pressing him into the covers as he worships his gangly, pale frame and the awkward constellations of freckles coloring it with his mouth, hands and voice. And all he can do is hold on to the still potent muscles on the man's shoulders, and try not to let the whole hotel hear that he's being eaten up alive, the raised pink peaks of his nipples and all. And when the man finally arrives at his groin and mouths and nuzzles hotly at the clothed curve of his weeping erection before discarding the last barrier between them altogether, he has to bite down onto the side of his fist to not let that happen.

Boris' mouth is torturously moist and compellingly hot as it closes around the tip of his cock, and the blatant boldness and skill with which the man tastes the drop of precome at his slit and teases at his frenulum are frankly surprising for someone who, at least by their own account, has never done something like this to another man before. It's as though the man has anticipated this, thought about doing these things to him, and the notion of Boris fantasizing about him, perhaps even bringing himself off to the thought of him, just as he has done for the other gives him an insurmountable boost of confidence, confidence and courage to reach down and bury his fingers into the statesman's perfectly styled hair, making a complete mess of it as he clings on for the ride. When the man tilts his head to look up to him, wrinkled crystal eyes twinkling with joyous contentment and an unmistakable smile pulling at those lips that are currently wrapped around his flushed shaft, he almost comes at the sight. All that he gets in return is an amused snort.

Boris doesn't let him off easy, holding him down easily with just one hand while the other wanders down to play with his softly haired balls, rolling them in his warm palm and eliciting a broken moan from his lips, before grazing his rough knuckles along his perineum and circling the puckered rim of his hole with the calloused tip of his finger. The whole thing is so much like out of one of his little fantasies that it's almost scary, and he wishes so badly that that finger would just slip inside. Unlike in his fantasies, though, there is no magical pot of Vaseline that suddenly appears out of nowhere in this clandestine hotel room, and it _is_ a great sadness, but as Boris finally lets his cock slip from between his lips and land onto his stomach with an obscene 'smack', pulling himself up onto his knees and spitting into his large hard before wrapping it tightly around both of their erections, starting to thrust up against him like a bull in heat, he figures that the reality might just make up for it.

"V-... Valera," Boris groans at him, looking down upon him with something dangerously close to pure adoration in his blown out, hazy eyes, and with a helpless sob he reaches up to wrap his arms around the man's thick neck, pulling him into a kiss full of passion, full of quiet admiration and guilty longing that have, slowly but surely, accumulated upon his heart for all this time that they have been together - together, and yet so far apart, and perhaps even before that; months, years, _decades_ before they were brought together by the same power that so cruelly is now dragging them apart again, not akin to ripping off a band-aid, but as though through the scenic route, with spiteful delay. And the zealous way, the equal fire with which the man answers to him, combined with the feeling of the man on top of him, all around him and inside of his chest, and a particularly skilled flick of his wrist, proves to be too much and he is coming, coming with the man's name on his lips. "Bo-... _Boris_!"

The absolute euphory that washes over him then nearly knocks him out, and it is much, much later, after the aftershocks of pleasure ravaging his body have finally died down and a pleasant fatigue settled upon him, that he realizes that Boris has gently rolled him onto his stomach and is currently doing something entirely indecent that involves the man's slicked up fingers and the tender crack of his own ass. "B-Borya, wha-," he starts, his voice raspy and heavy with sleep, but then he is brought back to full awakeness again when the tingly, sweaty heat of Boris' front presses up against his back, the hot, hard curve of his hefty erection sliding wetly between the lush globes of his buttocks, and it is at that moment that he realizes that the sticky substance must be his own ejaculate! "Shhh, Valera," Boris then bends down to whisper soothingly into his ear, and if he were a younger man, he'd be painfully hard again. "Can I... ?" The question is almost funny, with the man's cock already slotted between his ass cheeks and the weight of him pinning him into the mattress, but his heart flutters at the caring gesture. Boris has been doing that a lot lately. Caring about him. Looking after him, as though he is something worth looking after for. " _Please_."

It doesn't take long for Boris, either, a handful of harsh, aborted thrusts between his tingling cheeks (he can't help but think how delicious the man's hard cock feels rubbing against his anus and perineum; oh, if only the man would push his way in, filling his body...), coupled with tender and wonderfully sloppy kisses over the freckled mound of his nape, and the man is coming with a hoarse grunt, biting down onto his blushing flesh. He has never been claimed like this by another person, as though he is something worth claiming and preserving, and it's positively glorious. "Next time, we should bring Vaseline," Boris breathes gruffly into his ear as the man lays on top of him, powerful chest rising and falling and coarse hairs tickling the sensitive skin of his back as a lively pulse thrums steadily against it, very much alive, both of their bodies sticky with cooling sweat and other remnants of their mutual affection. "You should move, you're heavy," he mutters languidly into the pillow, but his heart swells with unashamed happiness at the thought of a next time. Perhaps there is a little hope left in this hell hole of their lives, after all.


End file.
